


The Game

by itsaquinnquinnsituation



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsaquinnquinnsituation/pseuds/itsaquinnquinnsituation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just reading those coffee grounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, intended for entertainment purposes only. I do not mean to offend or insult anyone. No characters, real or *based off real people*, belong to me. I am not making money off my work.
> 
> This is my universe and exactly how I see it. Writing should be enjoyed, not judged.
> 
> This is my third work in this fandom.
> 
> Just one of my visions and speculations. Pure guesswork and crystal ball type of thing. Maybe some day I'll regret it. Maybe I won't. Time will tell.

****

 

All the world’s a stage, and all men and women are merely players…

She sat in her favourite wicker chair, nursing a half-full glass of wine in front of an open laptop and pondered.

Some people say all of life is a game. Whether that’s true is debatable of course, but what isn’t is that during life, people play many games. Some games they choose to play, others are forced onto them. In her case it was, probably, a bit of both. 

 

“…when are you going to do it?” – her friend exclaimed a little too loudly and immediately flustered, dropping her gaze down to the remnants of her scrambled egg, at which she hesitantly poked with her fork.

“…I don’t know” – Gillian flustered about equally as much and furtively looked around the outdoor terrace, - “I’m not sure I have to say anything.”

“…Nm… right” – the friend went for it with a bit more boldness, noticing that there was barely a soul around, - “It baffles me that you would think this is such an ordinary thing!”

“What is?” – Gillian looked up from her salad.

“I mean” – the friend lowered her voice again, - “I mean how many other people do you know who go for it after so many years?”

“N…” – Gillian smiled tensely and shot another look around, - “This isn’t really that big of a deal. I mean, many series are restarted after having been… uh… concluded…”

“With the original crew…?”

“Yeah! And… and even if they can’t do it full-time, you know, the actors… they… can… get a cameo…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t get a cameo, Gillian. You agreed to do it again. The whole thing. With him” – She punctuated, - “After all these years. Do you understand, he agreed to it too! I mean, how many people would do that?!”

Gillian looked at her. She said nothing.

How could she? Saying anything would have meant explaining years and years of a complex and multi-faceted “thing”, and it was precisely a “thing” and not a friendship or a relationship because it didn’t cleanly fit the definition of either and neither did its course or conduct which could be best described as a game. 

 

For example, how did they manage to agree to the series returning? The truth was that the real reason why it took years for the series to restart was because that was how long it took for the individuals in charge to realise that in order to get both of them to agree to it, they had to play into their game. “Yeah, David’s thinking about it”, “yeah, Gillian’s been considering it”, “David thinks it might really work”, “Gillian hopes she can find the time…” Both were on board, but…

Neither was going to agree first. Because that meant losing the game. Simple as that. 

Gillian has known that for years. She’s known that since the day she met him back then, in the nineties, dashigly handsome, confident, witty, a bit arrogant, and very, very alluring. And damn it if she wasn’t glad she got a word of advice early on - just a side remark from somebody on the set, somebody whose name or face she could never remember. 

“Don’t you fall for him now” – the woman had cautioned, - “And if you do, be sure not to tell him.” 

So, she didn’t. 

Tell him, that is. 

People were speculating like mad. There were whispers, smirks, laughs, inappropriate jokes, rumours – some very, very bold and outrageous rumours – but through all of that, she walked with poise and a small smile. *They* could say whatever they wanted. There was only one thing that mattered. That *she* didn’t. 

Maybe that was what’s kept him around. In the beginning, at least, she mused. After years, who knows – by then, everyone could see what was patently obvious and could it really have been so important that none of it has ever been put into words? Or was that the last step that remained to be taken before that figurative jump of a cliff – and a jump it would have been, because as far as she knew, saying it would have meant buying a one-way ticket.

Or maybe it would have meant just losing the game. Who knows.

 

Mitch spoke with her not too long ago. They were sitting in a narrow hallway in uncomfortable chairs, waiting for their turn in the studio. The photographer was just about done working with David. 

Mitch cleared his throat suddenly and sheepishly asked:

“So… should I be congratulating someone?”

“What?” – she turned to him in surprise.

“I… mean” – Mitch stammered and tilted his head towards the closed door, - “He’s been acting kind of… peculiar…”

When he uttered that uniquely unfitting word, she immediately knew. David had really been acting very strangely, he was overly gregarious but completely distracted, smiling at the wrong times and forgetting to respond. She found he gravitated towards her and she let him because she liked it, but she said… nothing. 

He said nothing, too. Saying it meant losing the game. 

“N…o” – she exhaled and immediately bit her tongue because of how nervous she sounded, - “I guess we’re all just… a little overwhelmed.”

Mitch nodded and let it slide and she was grateful for that because if a debate ensued, she was not sure she could stand her ground. Because she wasn’t sure she was so convinced anymore.

 

That’s because with time, it got harder. It got difficult right about when his time on the show sharply diminished and from then on, things only got worse. If in the beginning it was all about who said “hello” or smiled first, later it meant counting days – or weeks! – until it was acceptable to send an email. He would write. She’d wait two days, mentally sighing and watching the clock, then write back. Then she’d wait, sitting on needles. And if he made her wait, she had to make him wait twice as long. That’s how it went. If she called him, then he had to write her first, and she had to wait even if it meant months went by. Writing him would have meant admitting it. Admitting it would have meant losing the game. 

 

 

“You aren’t twenty anymore” – another friend speculated as they strode the streets of London in a late afternoon. She knew it, of course, because she could feel it. Time was passing by, it did not care for their game. 

 

She reasoned she had to play it if she wanted to survive in this society. There were always things people didn’t agree with, rules that they didn’t like, but they mostly lived by them anyway because everyoned wanted to be accepted. As a public figure, the pressure was probably twice as high. There were consequences to think about, reputations, images and the like. But on long winter nights with one glass of wine next to book or a laptop, those abstract things were very far from her thoughts. 

 

The real problem was, of course, that the only way to win the game she was playing with David was to lose it. There had to be no other way. It was one of those unique situations when the winner lost and the loser got everything. In fact, the mechanism was beautifully failproof because the only way she could win was if he did too because it was him that she was playing for. He was her prize, she was his. But to get the prize, someone had to lose. 

Someone had to step over pride, fear, insecurity, doubt, past offences, anxiety over public appearances and worry about the future - someone had to lose all those meek excuses and put all bets on something really important. Something that was more powerful than all those things combined, more beautiful and more true. Something that mattered more than any sacrifice imaginable. Something that was worth it.

 

She tapped the laptop touchpad and the screen came to life. She opened her emailbox and began a new message. She only typed a few words which she didn’t proofread before clicking “send”.

She sat back in her chair and sighed out a long breath.

 

The game was over.

 

 

She smiled.

This was one game she was happy to lose. 

 

****


End file.
